The Unknown Hero of an Eight-Year-Old Boy that Remained Silent

This is poem 3 of 300 in my 300 poems series. This is about my discovery of my biological dad's first name, and me meeting my great grandmother and great uncle. Perhaps it's real. Maybe fantasy...

My cousin Kevin

Knew who my

Dad was.

Never met him.

Didn’t even know

His name.

Hey Zach, come here!

His mom and her sister just

Told me a bunch of lies

About my dad.

He’s in prison.

He has seven other kids.

He never really loved you.

You were a failed abortion.

None of these things were true,

But being a 6-year-old,

I clung onto any hope I could.

Maybe he did love me?

 

Look at this photo.

A picture of a pale,

White man in

An undershirt and jeans

Holding a beer.

He had spiked up hair

In the picture

And a small soul patch.

That’s your dad.

His name is Tim.

I was ecstatic to see

The first picture

Of my dad

That I didn’t

Really believe

Existed.

 

I started to dream.

What is he like?

Would he love me?

Of course, he would!

He’d take care of me.

Love me more than

My aunt and uncle could.

If they loved me,

We’d have water and heat

Right now,

And I wouldn’t have to be

At Kevin’s.

 

We ate Mac N Cheese,

The cheap kind

That sticks yellow goo to

Your throat and teeth.

His wife walks in.

            You’ll never believe who I saw at the store!

Who?

            Tim!

D****t! I told you to call me if you ever saw him!!!

 

My mind started racing.

Could it be him?

The man I looked up to

Even though I never met him?

Could it be?

            Sorry! Just bring him down the street.

Fine!

 

Kevin took me to some trailer

Where two old people answered

The door.

This is Tim’s kid.

That’s all he said.

They both started crying.

                                    He looks so much like him!

I just stood there and smiled awkwardly.

A kid who weighed no more

Then 45 pounds at eight

In raggedy clothes

We got from a pantry.

Who were these people?

Do they know my father?

I want to be just like him!

 

Nothing happened after that day.

No phone call.

No letters.

No acknowledgement I existed.

It was just me

Pretending in

A fake world

Where he actually knew me

And loved me.

But fantasizing only gets you so far…

 

I spiked my hair to be like him.

Waited and waited to hear from him.

Wondered if he would be proud of me.

If he wanted to know me.

If he even cared

I existed.

Photo by Jesus Rodriguez on Unsplash

Author's Note

Thank you for reading! This is a first draft, so please don't be too rough. I do love comments, criticisms, and feedback. Feel free to leave me links to any of your pieces you want me to check out!

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

I am not by aptitude or nature a poet. I like poems that tell a story, or are the irritating grain of sand in the muscle of the oyster - the thing that yields a pearl, or a story, eventually. Many really bad true stories become really good stories when written through a filter of fiction. A thing that never actually happened may happen to be actually true when seen through the proper lens.

[Coyote Poetry]

It is hard for children. Hard to understand the adults. My father was in prison often and he had many wives and many children. Only me and my sister, he kept in contact with him. A blank spot for them in their lives my nine other half-brothers and sisters. Powerful and worthwhile words shared.
Coyote

[Nix is typing...]

This was really moving, Ziggy. I honestly couldn't imagine what this woulda been like...actually thanks to your words, I can, you really helped the reader feel your experience...thank you for sharing your story. :)

Kindly, Nix ❤️️

[Delmar Cooper]

I'm not overly susceptible to sentiment. I have the usual ration of empathy but the gland that secretes it is not, in me, over active. In spite of all that this writing was moving and if a report, pitiable; if fiction genius.
Thanks for sharing.

[Ziggy Matthews]

Thank you for your review! Sadly, it is the prior. I appreciate your comments.

[Samuel Dickens]

This is like a kick in the gut. So much of it rings familiar. Messed up families are hell on a small child--this I know. The wounds leave scars that are deep and probably lasting. Especially, I felt pain when he combed his hair like his father.

[Ziggy Matthews]

Thank you so much for your review! It means so much to me.